Dreaming About Having a Dream
Last night I had a dream about a dragon
With claws and wings and big pointy teeth.
It was driving a red station wagon
And 'round its neck there hung an X-mas wreath.
I woke to find I hadn’t waked at all,
But slumbered still; the nightmare galloped on,
And flying through dream’s sterile darkened hall
My thoughts are scattered. Could my mind be gone?
Certainly not! Tonight I dream lucid
And I awake, wondering who I am,
Doped up on Cartesian meta-acid
And dashing across a nocturnal lam.
But then you must wake up and face a dream
Where nothing is as nothing makes it seem.
Yesterday’s Flight
A day ago I went into the sky.
I took a flight on a magic carpet,
Quite obsolete for a common housefly,
But good enough for flying o’er a tarpit.
At least it's better than trying to wade
Like geese that jump from water to the air
In tight formations like a sky parade
And laughing at accompanying gulls they sprayed with Nair.
But all flights must eventually come to ground
By terrorist or bomb, I knew we’re fucked,
Especially when I saw who we’d found.
Deftly I dodged and I weaved and I ducked.
I finally touched down in my garage.
My dad was pissed 'cause I was not laplace.
Untitled
In empty beauty solid vacuum cries
And space does color palettes gray and black.
The stars reveal the secrets of the wise
Even against the dark of the Coal Sack.
Fly! Fly free unto a distant star.
And cry! Cry high for me with all your heart.
For you I would climb ev’ry mountain far
To find a great title for this work of art.
But poetic license be what it may,
A stream of nothing births a golden pool
In which reflections show the coming day.
Reflections betray, revealing a fool.
So what was this sad sonnet all about?
We don't, we can't, we won't now know, so pout!
Unprotected Left
On a road I drove, horrible drivers.
I drove like them on Sunset Boulevard.
I ran over some reddish squirrel furs.
I hit a little curb, and hit it hard.
My car sped down the sidewalk, joggers fled.
I wave at them smiling; flashing teeth
Blind passersby, while brake lights flicker red
To find themselves with bones and flesh beneath.
On my left there was a three-headed dog
Driving a beamer with big shiny wheels,
Coursing its way through the north LA fog
Amidst the people’s loud, obnoxious jeers.
Remember -- driving’s not a contact sport,
And buy domestic, not a cheap import.
Fourteen Nasty Ways to Die
A cattle prod inserted in the ear.
He peed on the tree atop a high voltage line.
He OD’d on cheap, disgusting domestic beer.
The day before he fell off trees of pine.
Then after he got eaten by some crocs.
A shotgun to the head made him quite stiff,
As did lashes from whips-of-many-socks.
Passing the River Styx costs a tariff.
The seventh way to die involves a song.
A bitter mushroom from a cave in Spain.
A poison philter secreted in chocolate Ding-Dong.
A rusty nail file lodged inside the brain.
And reading junk like this verbose sonnet
Will be the death of prior writers I bet.